


Forgiven

by ErisYumi



Series: Forgiven [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Crisis of Faith, Drug Addiction, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Recovery, Redeemed, Self-Loathing, Survivor Guilt, This is the character arc he never got in canon, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisYumi/pseuds/ErisYumi
Summary: "My dear, you’ve suffered quite a bitthroughout this life of yoursyour body’s back from battlebut your soul’s still stuck in war"*The character arc Samson never received in the games.





	1. Sit in Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
Several months back, I posted a few 'stand-alone' fics which were side one-shots of this main story. I kept speaking of how I had a larger piece of fiction I was writing which I didn't want to publish just yet as I wanted to finish writing. Too bad, I still didn't finish writing it, but I've progressed through half the story so far, and decided it was time to publish it.  
So, this is 'Forgiven', essentially Samson's character arc, which the game sadly failed to give him. It took one line during Samson's trial for me to love him, which so far inspired around 17 chapters (so you guys are at least sure you'll have that amount to read). I was saddened to see how little his potential was explored and was only hinted at throughout both DA2 and DAI.  
Alas, what the game lacks in cutscenes, I make up for in fanfiction. 
> 
> I hope you guys will enjoy this! Please don't hesitate to comment to let me know what you think!
> 
> _*There may or may not be nsfw scenes. If so, I'm still debating whether to post them as separate works, or include them here and change the rating to explicit. Let me know what you guys think!_

As she exited her personal quarters, heads turned in Jace’s direction before she stepped towards the Inquisitor’s seat. Her body slightly tilting forward, she whispered a few words to one of the guards flanking the throne, and as Jace removed herself, the guard began making her way across the Great Hall, groups of guests present in the hall parting at her presence, a curious expression animating their features. Watching the woman make a turn towards the left, and stepping into a corridor, Jace lowered herself into the throne. Originally, its form had been shaped into the likeness of the Sunburst symbol but as the months had passed, it had been Josie’s initiative to adorn it with dragon skin and other materials originating from the ancient winged creatures she had slain, embellishing the seat, and mirroring the decoration bestowed upon the walls of the Great Hall adorned with caboshed dragon heads, witness of achieved glories.

These features had been Josephine’s idea, after killing her first dragon. A display and symbol of the Inquisitor’s might, she had stated. The bird carrying her message had arrived days afterward, and her soldiers had been forced to backtrack in order to retrieve the poor creature’s skull before returning to the keep with it. When Jace had stumbled upon her second dragon, Josephine had also demanded its head be brought to Skyhold. For symmetry, she claimed. Considering one of the dragons had been the Northern Hunter, every Ferelden dignitaries, had been pleased to gaze upon its remains. It had gained them much needed allies, and most importantly, significant financial support.

The guard returned soon enough, as she emerged back into the room, Cullen at her heel. As he approached her, his swift steps carrying across the stairs, Jace rose up, inclining her head in his direction. “I have given notice to the gaolers to bring him forward. It should be just a few moments, now.” She nodded her acknowledgement, and the Commander then placed himself at the bottom of the stairs, disclosing orders to guards standing nearby.

Taking note of the silent commotion, the guests began crowding towards the throne as Jace sat back on it, and as moments passed, various dignitaries and the hold’s people began increasingly amassing in the Hall, exchanging quiet words between each other as the crowd expended. For this particular instance, Josephine was not to oversee the judgement and had been replaced by Cullen, who, as he had finished voicing orders, stood at her left side, the spot opposite where Josephine would ordinarily stand, shifting expectantly in his armour, his brows knitted tightly together in impatience. Jace knew he had eagerly anticipated this very moment throughout the months, and his expression reflected determination, yet beyond, she could perceive a deeply rooted sense of fury. 

Once the Great Hall had been filled, the reinforced (material) gates at the end of the Hall swung open, its hinges emitting a sound reaching far across the room and alerting everyone within, and a group of gaolers emerged from the opening, the recently captured prisoner following close behind. Jace observed the scene. Heavy manacles linked him to his detainer, his gait uncertain and staggering, and his head hung low, his shoulders slumping down. He stood under tight surveillance, a contingent of guards following close by, their presence adding to the procession. Catching sight of them, Cullen’s fidgety behaviour stopped at once; his body straightened, his expression morphing into one of resolute focus, and he rapidly brought his arms to rest atop the pommel of his sword.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the gaolers sharply pushed the prisoner on the back, driving him forward to await judgement.

Raleigh Samson rose his head up to face the Inquisitor, revealing a weary, haggard face.

Cullen began voicing the crimes of which he stood accused, his words harsh, heavy with incomprehension, his gaze cast on Samson bearing a tinge of condescension. “Are you still loyal to that thing?”

Cullen’s voice retained its unforgiving tone throughout, resentment let loose as he rained down accusations upon the prisoner. As she was expected to come to a decision, Jace let her gaze dart between both men, listening in turn to the stated crimes and Samson’s defence as it failed to reach the Commander’s ears. She observed the man they had chased half across the continent: his bearing now offered no defiance, aside from retorts filled with anger directed at Cullen. She remembered him from the Temple, memories bubbling up in her mind, she remembered him afterward, when they had carted him back to camp in order to bring him to Skyhold. He appeared beaten, defeated, the force he had previously displayed during their fight, that drove him, seemed extinguished now.

_“It ended, as well as anything else I’ve done. Everything I cared about is destroyed.”_

Somehow, she had known he would not fight his capture. She now realised he hadn’t because there remained no reasons to. He had given up. Mulling over everything she had learned, everything she had heard, she pondered over the multitude of missives they had found scattered across Orlais, over what knowledge she had garnered from Hawke and Cullen. She curved her head towards Cullen himself, taking note of his anticipating gaze riveted on her. It was hardly the first time she had carried out a controversial judgement, and it surely would not be the last. The crowd had almost held its breath for several heartbeats, their eyes equally fixated on her as they waited. Finally, Jace’s lips parted.

“Very well. Samson, you will spend your remaining years serving the Inquisition.” Her announcement echoed throughout the room, relieving the tension in the air.

Conscription. She glanced down at Cullen; his face had remained stern, and only gave a nod of acknowledgement at her verdict, as she had known he would. Then, gesturing at the gaolers, they approached Samson, gripping him by the arm. He remained passive as they stirred him away from the throne and back through the crowd. The hold’s people had already began scattering, yet she could take note of various Orlesian nobles currently residing within the hold lingering behind, their conversations now audible, and she could hear fragments of it as opinions and looks were exchanged.

As was her habit in such circumstances, Jace disregarded the tumultuous state which would systematically ensue after a judgement, and she rose from the throne before stepping down the stairs, and crossed the Great Hall in turn, willingly turning her attention solely to those present who would call out to her, her name respectfully voiced in greetings, which she would always return in kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for how teensy this first chapter is! Nonetheless, I hope you guys have enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
_"He glanced down at his hands, folded them and outstretched them. The sensations of convulsions were etched into his skin, into his muscles, his body able to recreate a ghost of the tremors, remembering them better than his mind did."_
> 
> *
> 
> _“Deceive yourself by yielding to soft words.”_   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys will enjoy this chapter! As usual, don't hesitate to comment and let me know what you think! I also don't mind constructive criticism or corrections of any kind, so if you're absolutely compelled to drop a remark, don't be afraid!

Jace made her way through the keep, setting out onto the battlements as the early morning sunrays enveloped her, chasing away remnants of chill from the past night.

Reaching her destination, her hand came to softly knock on the door before stepping in. Her entrance’s timing aligned with Cullen’s as he hurled a dagger through the room, its edge perforating the fabric of the dummy positioned at the other end. In spite of having noticed her presence, he could not withhold an exasperated shout from escaping him. Jace only arched an eyebrow, shutting the door behind her; she had witnessed his temper flaring up on numerous occasions, and it would not disturb her this time. Leaning against the doorway, she simply waited. As Cullen regained his composure, he turned to face her.

“Inquisitor, I…” His voice trailed off, and he sighed heavily: “You keep finding me in the worst moments.”

“Please, don’t hold back for my sake.” Stepping forward, she gave him a humorous smile.

Sighing on the exhale, temper visibly simmering down, Cullen regained his usual stance, a hand laid against the pommel of his sword, and proceeded to orient their conversation to the most present matter. His tone grew thick with apprehension, as now that the matters of the Arbour Wilds had been settled, there only remained Corypheus, of where to make their final stand. Deliberations ensued as Cullen briefed her; the state of their army, and its numbers scattered throughout Thedas in the forts they had occupied, the bulk of them being on the return journey to Skyhold still.

Placing one of Leliana’s report back on the desk which Cullen had handed her, Jace lifted her head.

“So, what has thrown you into such a state?”

Brows knitted together, resentment began to spill from him, a torrent released of thoughts unspoken concerning the past judgement they had both carried out, as he paced up and down the room. She knew well enough of his position and disposition concerning his former brother-in-arm and the resentment which had grown within him since he had first laid eyes on him at Haven. Jace remained silent for the most part, interjecting little, safe to ask if Cullen did not feel an inkling of sympathy towards him —the answer was negative— until his anger had settled. He inquired then as to whether Jace needed anything from him.

“Well, I came precisely for this reason. How does fare our newest... Recruit?” She had not heard of him since their return from the Arbour Wilds, and since she had attempted to exert justice upon him. Jace could not retain a faint smirk at her choice of word, certain the Commander would be pricked.

As expected, a scoff immediately left him as Cullen heard her speak, an eyebrow arched in derision. “If that is how you wish to call him.” Enmity reflected in his tone lessened, and he continued. “At the moment, he remains in the holding pens. He has not said much. He has not done much either. He’s... passive. He hasn’t caused us any trouble so far, at the very least”.

Jace acquiesced, and announced: “We will bring him to Dagna. I’m sure she’ll wish to study his armour as well as his… unusual resistance to red Lyrium. It should add to what knowledge we already possess.”

“Understood.”

“What of his armour?” Jace suspected it carried no toxicity, anymore, yet she would not put it to test. it was out of question that a single fragment of it should taint the inquisition.

“He still wears it. So far, only the gaolers have handled him. I made certain no one else approached him.” Cullen’s expression had turned stern. He knew the danger as well as her, and perhaps better than most.

“Alright. Find volunteers to carry the armour safely to the Undercroft, and then we’ll both bring him in.”

Nodding his assent once again, he informed her she would be warned once Cullen was ready.

— ✦ —

Samson woke to find the same, austere ceiling above him. His gaze had traced each bare stones’ outline, the stream of his thoughts reaching a state of lethargy once again as time stretched on and slowed to a trickle, his perception of it growing dull and numb. The holding pens offered no distraction from his nagging thoughts, aside from an infrequent trickling sound of droplets along the walls, and his own, unsteady breaths. So, he slept. His head laid resting against his crossed arms against the cell’s cot. His drowsiness would be breached for the occasional meal, shoved his way by gaolers who’d rarely acknowledge his presence, aside from the occasional look of condescension. From the corner of his eye,

Samson shifted his body to the side, restlessly fumbling his gauntlets. The cot dug into his side, into his bones. Yet, somehow, the consistency and predictability of sleeping on the same ground gave him a slight measure of appeasement. Before he could restrain himself, his thoughts galloped back to his times in Kirkwall, to the hideouts he was forced to vacate after several days had passed, where dubious places to sleep had imposed on him to grow leery. He had spent so long a time progressing from place to place, he seldom could become accustomed to a single environment anymore. The fact that he drew such a reaction from remaining in a cell was ludicrous, yet he felt it all the same. Anything to distract him, anything to stop his thoughts from taking hold.

He had been thrown back into this cell just a few days back, and what little precious relief he could garner, he derived from the absence of relapse. He glanced down at his hands, folded them and outstretched them. The sensations of convulsions were etched into his skin, into his muscles, his body able to recreate a ghost of the tremors, remembering them better than his mind did. He had yet to find his hands shaking erratically from withdrawal, yet he knew that wouldn’t last.

As Samson kept glazing over the ceiling, sounds reached him from afar. A heartbeat later, the gaoler standing watch at proximity to his cell sprung to her feet, eyes intently set on a far-off point. As moments elapsed, he discerned heavy steps descending the flight of stairs leading to the holding pens, his gaoler watchful still, the sounds amplifying as they drew nearer, until finally, distinctive clanking sounds of heavy armour echoed back and forth against the walls, and a group of soldiers appeared in sight, pitting themselves in front of his cell. Peripherally, he took note of their unusually high number as they exchanged words he did not bother to (listen to??) with the already present gaoler, though the knowledge sparked little curiosity in him, or otherwise alarmed him.

Finally, they faced his way. “Up. You’re being moved.” The man standing closest to the door extricated a set of keys from a pouch hanging on his belt, and after hearing the lock clicking into place, the gaoler stepped within the cell’s walls.

Incoherent glimpses of his trial returned to him. He remembered what judgement had been rendered, and recalled how he had begun speculating what they intended with him. There was no way he could know, now, and nothing he could do to stop it.

Finding no cause for resistance, Samson did as bid and rose to his feet.

“Off with the armour.” The guard tossed a change of clothes in his direction. Months ago, his arms would have reflectively and effortlessly risen to catch the items, yet now, despite wishing to avoid losing face in front of these strangers, eyeing him with animosity, lassitude and weariness worn their way through him, and simply lifting his arms had grown costly. Nevertheless, his hands clasped around the change.

He had wondered if they ever intended to confiscate it. There no longer remained any potency to it after that blighted Inquisitor had meddled with it, yet he surmised that, for precaution’s sake alone, Cullen, or someone else, would have elected to take it away, nonetheless. 

He let his gaze course across the dim dungeon and spotted a pair of dwarves withdrawn behind the group of guards.

Just as his eyes landed back on the guards, he noticed their stillness, the closest man’s eyes fixated on him, impatience bare within his pupils.

“You’re going to stare the entire time?” Samson growled.

Casting a suspicious glance, the guard reluctantly backed away from the cell. Samson unfolded the bundle he had been tossed. Commoner’s garments. It was a loud and clear statement which stripped him of any status, instead lowering to the role of plain prisoner. Samson gritted his teeth. If anything, it allowed him to switch to cleaner apparel, something he knew he greatly needed. His eyes lingered on the armour, on the dull, red reflection the silverite had acquired, after it had been alloyed with red lyrium. He knew, he was would not don the armour again.

The guard seized manacles from the man standing nearest to him, before shifting his body and stepping forth into the cell, and yanking Samson’s wrists forward, attached manacles to them before bringing him out the cell.

“Now, walk.” The man commanded, his tone curt, and gesturing with his chin as he led him towards the flight of stairs. Putting one foot in front of the other, Samson did as bid. From the corner of his eye, he observed the pair of dwarves previously withdrawn step forward, each lifting pieces of the armour up, before they fell in rank behind the group of guards.

A slight relief seeped into him as he sensed the strength remaining in his limbs. Idleness had not left him prostrate yet.

He climbed along, the shackles tugging at him, eyes riveted on the ground instead of forward. For this reason, he heard the voice before seeing whom it belonged to.

“Has there been any trouble?”

Recognition dawned on him in a heartbeat, and Samson rose his head from the ground to face Cullen. His voice conveyed an assertiveness and authority which was starkly different from the times Samson had known him, back in Kirkwall. That authority had had yet to manifest at the time he had been recently transferred from Ferelden’s Circle —Cullen’s composure had been easily broken, then, his gait uncertain and jittery as he reflectively would glance behind his shoulder, or when under Meredith’s boot heel. 

“No, Commander.” Samson noted how the guard’s tone had been filled with reverence, a sharp contrast from the approach he reserved Samson, and how he regarded the Commander in awe, as if ready to leap at his every order, whereas he did not waste an ounce of respect on himself. A bitter feeling tugged at him, seeing the man he had once been friends with regarding him with such loathing.

“Your Worship.” Interrupting his thoughts, the guard bowed, his back arching. Samson realised he had not noticed Trevelyan's presence. The guard’s tone had remained unchanged when addressing her, stating how both she and Cullen were regarded.

His gaze trailing over the Inquisitor, a poisonous sensation seeped through him as flashes of events at the Elven Temple caught him unaware. He had had ample time to mule over his defeat, to force it away and keep it at bay, until it gnawed its way into his mind in the darkest hours of the night and there was no getting rid of it then. His Templars' numbers had been drastically dwindling as she made her way through the temple, those elf guards intercepting them at every turn in attempts to drive them out. His armour had been rendered worthless, and there would be no occasion to fix it again, yet still he had to fight, to block them, to reach the Well and its power... Maddox. The news of his death and the regret that bit him, the one he attempted to drown. Samson never had time to mourn anymore, yet now that he had had nothing but time on his hand, mourning was the last thing he wished for.

“Came here to gloat, have you now, inquisitor?” He spat out.

“No. We have other matters to attend to.” Cullen sniped at him before Trevelyan even had time to open her mouth. Cullen was glaring at him, with something akin to disgust in his eyes. The words stung him with remorse and prompted him to silence. As the guard and Cullen began exchanging words, Samson let his head slump down. He already knew how the Commander had come to regard him, and how low his opinion of himself had sunk, yet it hit him all the same. Why should that surprise him, anyhow? Samson has sunk low. He didn’t need a reminder of the place he had reached once again.

Jace physically stepped forward one pace. “Let’s go.” She signalled towards the remaining flight of stairs with a sharp flick of her wrist.

His brows deeply knitted together in anger, Cullen unfolded his arms from his chest and gestured in turn towards the gaoler, and their group began climbing once again, a heavy silence settling on them all broken only by heavy boots stomping on the stone ground. She and Cullen stood at the head with the prisoner surrounded by the group of guards. Pushing the heavy gate leading to the courtyard, sunlight bathed her in warmth, lighting up the damp floor as the procession stepped outside. Clanking sounds caught her attention, and she turned her head to see Samson lifting both hands, bringing them up to shield his eyes, his head curving towards the ground. His pace had temporarily slowed, but the guards yanked him forward.

Upon first exploring Skyhold, Leliana and her agents had found no passage which led from the holding pens to the hold’s heart, putting discretion out of order for the time being as it forced them crossing the courtyard uncovered and pass through the Great Hall’s gate. There would be whisperings, and Josie would gently berate her about it once it was over, but nothing could be done to change that. Eyes fell on them from all sides, and Jace sighted some of their soldiers in the sparring ring interrupting their brawl to stare at their passing. Cassandra, too, standing at her usual spot near the training grounds, turned eyes from her clashing to let her gaze trail in Jace’s direction, observing their progress alongside the hold’s people.

However, a passage was located a few paces before the Great Hall itself, allowing them to pass undetected and avoiding the swarm of dignitaries and nobles presently exchanging words within the Great Hall, and they promptly made for its door. Once again, obscurity engulfed them. The way slumped down greatly and revealed another flight of stairs. Their walk continued through a lengthy corridor, their shadows dancing upon the walls as they passed dimly lit torches set alongside their path, until reaching the door leading to the Undercroft.

Cullen stepped forth, and swinging the door open, stepped into the room to held it as the procession followed close behind. Dazzling rays of light chased the corridor’s darkness, and this time Jace had to shield her eyes as well. 

“Oh! There you are!”

Dagna lifted her head from her workshop, her fiery gaze settling on them all. Noticing (what’s his name) was absent, as had often been the case since Dagna’s recruitment, Jace voiced a greeting, which Dagna absentmindedly returned before trotting towards the pair of dwarves who had been tasked to transport the great lyrium armour to her. Her eyes gleamed with joy as she approached them, her hands delicately and gingerly seizing one of the pieces and raising it up, its dull red, remnants of the lyrium, catching the light and accentuating its colour. Behind her, Jace heard the door swing shut, and Cullen placed himself before it, arms folded across his chest.

“So, this is the armour I kept hearing about? Fascinating!”

All the while giving directives to the dwarves, Samson silently observed as Dagna picked up his gauntlets before placing them on the nearest surface and casting a quick glance in his direction as she did. Samson had failed to understand what they had planned to do with him, but now that he had been brought here, now that he saw this dwarf beaming sharply at him and the armour in turn, he understood she had been the one behind the creation of the rune which had blasted his armour’s power away. Remaining immobile, he seized her up as she fluttered about her workshop with the same focus Maddox had displayed, minus the enthusiasm he had lacked for his craft, and realised she had taken an interest in the enchantments infused within the silverite. His guts twisted as a memory of Maddox at work on the chest piece flashed across his mind. His work had been exceptional. Anyone capable of defusing it was likely to seek the armour itself. Samson watched as it was picked apart, her attention turned entirely towards the pieces she moved about her workplace, and he heard her muttering underneath her breath, almost as if no one else had been present.

“A word?” Jace called out and glanced at the door, forcing Dagna out of her daze.

Despite her bursting fascination, the dwarf was quick to trot back to them. Once she had joined them again, Jace ordered Samson’s manacles be removed. If the guards felt reluctance, they abided by her order, nonetheless. And she expected no less.

Wrapping the chain around his fist, the gaoler as well as the array of guards were first to depart, their heads dipping low at hers and Cullen’s attention before exiting the Undercroft. Leaving Samson behind, Cullen shut the door behind them, not sparing a look on the inside.

“Need anything?” A large grin still floated on Dagna’s face as she spoke.

“I’d like to know more about Samson’s resistance to red lyrium. Since you’ve claimed numerous times how abnormal it is, I’d say you should make studying that a priority.”

“Will do. You both told me he’s willing to tell us anything we need to know, so how about I ask?” She chuckled, before recovering her composure. Jace glanced at Cullen; his eyebrows had shot up in incredulity. The discomfort he emanated whenever in Dagna’s radiated through him. “Anyway, Lyrium is risky even in its natural state, but tainted lyrium? It’s a miracle he’s still standing.”

Unable to come up with an appropriate rejoinder, Jace simply stood there, doing her best to suppress a smile. Besides, those were facts she had already learned, and she had nothing to add.

Cullen stepped in: “Back in Kirkwall, Knight-Commander Meredith lived through three full years of red lyrium exposure unbeknown to us all before it got to her.” His expression was sombre as he added to their pool of knowledge, he had scantily spoken of the events

Jace had heard of the deceased Knight-Commander’s body being eternally crystallised in a lethal red lyrium statue. Was that the fate awaiting anyone imbibing enough of the tainted substance? Would they all become abominations? She followed up on Cullen’s words: “Yet Samson appears to be well, he also has retained his mental faculties, unlike Meredith. Won’t his extensive usage of red lyrium eventually catch up to him as well? What does it even mean, that Corypheus only ‘delayed’ his corruption?”

“So full of questions, very good.” Her eyes gleamed. “You’re a mage. Ever heard of ways to fight off this kind of disease?”

She thought for a second. True, she could heal as much as she could destroy with magic, but this dabbled into Grey Warden affairs, a realm into which she had no access and of which she possessed no knowledge. She possessed the ability to heal injuries, invigorate or revive weakened or temporarily fallen allies, but had no idea how to suppress or assuage the darkspawn taint. She was painfully ignorant, in that area. Besides, she also knew of no way to counteract the effects natural lyrium had on magic.

“I’m afraid not.” She stated flatly.

“I can look into signs of natural immunities. If some are resistant to the taint, maybe he is too. But this has magic written all over it, lyrium, tainted or not, is still lyrium, and its effects are destructive for anyone but the dwarves.”

She looked pensive for a while, as if ascertaining and entertaining possibilities in her mind, then concluded. “In any case, thank you for bringing him here, Inquisitor.”

“Be sure to leave him in one piece.” Jace replied as she faintly smiled.

“Will do!” 

Nodding her farewells, Dagna turned on her heel, seemingly eager to retreat into the Undercroft in order to unleash the full scale of talents and curiosity.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Silence fell in the Undercroft._
> 
> _“Why are you here, Inquisitor?”_
> 
> _Why was she, indeed?_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to be minuscule and was meant as an interlude, but ultimately I merged it with an unpublished one-shot I wrote long ago, and suddenly the chapter became much bigger than intended. Please don't hesitate to comment to let me know your opinion! As usual, you can point out typos and cringy details if you ever see any~

And at last, the moment they had all anticipated had reached their doorstep in spectacular fashion; the ensuing struggle brought about long awaited triumph. As all the anchor's force discharged and their enemy’s form vanished in an emerald flash, at last came the end of The Inquisition’s mission, the ancient darkspawn’s final and frantic assault was thwarted, and he laid trampled at their feet, all that had seen this clash through stood victorious beneath the scarred sky. It was now the first of years of conflict that each of its the Inquisition's members were permitted a sigh of relief, marking the end of persistent threat no longer looming above all.

It was a final victory to solidify the Inquisition’s might, edifying it as a force to rival its allies, those nations which had rendered it aid now allowed to brandish what hand they had had in this endeavour. Their ranks swelled, youths pledging their years to the Inquisition as their turned its gaze towards what remnants of the conflict still walked the land.

— ✦ —

The news laid on everybody’s lips.

Triumphant shouts and articulations rose from the large gathering amassed within the Great Hall and Jace mingled among them, saluting each dignitaries as she passed, receiving formal words of felicitations from honeyed tongue hidden behind tailored masks, each cordial phrases returned in kind before decorum allowed she depart and move on to the next person she’d inevitably come upon.

The crowd parted before her, jubilant exclamations resounding forth as she looked over the hold’s people neck deep in their cup, from the least experienced youth to battle worn veterans newly returned from their march in the Arbour Wilds, each partook in the celebrations as boisterously and as loudly as they could. Farther away in the Great Hall, she saw groups of nobles conversing with each other with all the poise they could muster, sipping their drinks with light and excessively delicate motion. Naturally, Vivienne was at the heart of it all, strutting amidst them like a peacock. Occasionally, they all glanced in a singular direction in appropriately veiled outrage. Following their glances, Jace spotted a thoroughly inebriated Sera further on the side accompanied with a roaring Iron Bull, inarticulate shouts pouring out of her as she lifted her mug to brutally smack it against The Iron Bull’s, and Jace could not restrain herself when her lips inadvertently stretched into an amused smile at the stark contrast the sight offered.

_“You gotta give us another game of Wicked Grace, Curly._” Words catching her attention pushed her to turn her head to find Varric circling Cullen, the Commander uncomfortably casting looks far and wide in search for escape. It seemed he had no interest in repeating last time’s scenario, however amusing it had been for the rest of their group.

At the fringe between crowds of nobles and Skyhold’s people, she located Josephine in their midst, waving in her direction and gesturing at her. As bided, Jace approached, wading through to her Ambassador. A torrent of worries fell upon her as soon as she had joined Josephine, concerned remarks over the banquet shot at her like arrows. <strike></strike>

“Oh, Inquisitor. Do you like the drinks? I’m not sure about them.”

Jace simply picked up the nearest mug among a fresh batch. She had meant to assure Josephine of her spectacular organisational skills, but, perhaps too late, Jace realised her mistake as a fierce scent emanating from the mug assaulted her nostrils. And yet, she could not stop the motion, the mug was already at her lips, a gulp of the liquid going down her throat. Every single nerves in her throat seemed to burn, wither and die at that very moment. The sensations following her drinking was akin to a whiplash and she shuddered in repulsion.

“Maker—” A coughing fit interrupted Jace’s reply, “that’s disgusting.” The words had tumbled out of her, the drink eclipsing what sense of diplomacy had ever been instilled in her and Josephine’s expression crumbled into one of dejection. Jace attempted to revive her throat as she coughed away any lingering sensations of the horror she had just drunk.

“Oh, dear, you do not like it.” Already, she had begun fondling about her person looking for Maker knows what—

“It’s dwarven ale, Josie! Of course she believes it distasteful!” A large grin upon her lips, Leliana had apparently witnessed the spectacle and had interjected in her favour as she came to place her hands on Josephine’s shoulder in a soothing gesture.

“It was highly sought after, Inquisitor,” Josephine begun, her tone a touch entreating, “I simply had to request it from our cellars.”

Jace waved repeatedly, still clearing her throat, “Of course, Josie—” It was utterly pathetic, she had to cough once again, as the back of her throat had stung her severely as she spoke, and Leliana laughed her false laughter, the one which was so typically Orlesian while her eyes keenly observed her. No doubt she was safely tucking away the knowledge that the Inquisitor could not digest strong liquor for further use.

“Have I told you about one of my old companions, Inquisitor? Her name was Wynne,” her smile, as polished as any mask worn by the nobles in the hall, became just a shade desolate. “Perhaps you’ve heard of her, we had been traveling with Linnarel, the Hero of Ferelden…”

Jace had always particularly enjoyed tales of the Blight, her stories always offered a unique perspective no book could ever grant her, but it was enough. She had spoken to enough people, she had mingled enough. Jace politely nodded away the tale of this Wynne and her unexpected tastes in liquor before excusing herself.

She turned to look at the joviality surrounding her, at the number of their companions who had made their way into the Great Hall. There was so much glee in the atmosphere, yet all the clamour did not suffice to melt away the wariness which had seeped into her, slowly sinking down to her bones.

The strength of her drink would not see to that either. It did not stop her from drinking, however. 

Jace began receding closer to the stone walls, letting her gaze fall to the floor to concede her presence. One of their soldiers standing guard near the passageway leading to the rotunda tilted his head in her direction, a curious look in his eyes, yet remained silent. Her drink still in hand –she did not know why she had not yet dropped it upon the nearest surface– she walked, leisured steps carrying her across predominantly unnoticed. She’d occasionally catch someone’s attention and with all the dignity pertaining to the Inquisitor, continued on her way until reaching the Hall’s opened gates.

The crowd had stretched outside the Hall as in spite of its amplitude, it had failed to contain so large a crowd, though the guests there were far and few. Most of their people likely had assembled into the Great Hall, though Jace undoubtedly suspected celebrations had carried all the way to the Herald’s rest, a party of their own indubitably taking place there.

_The Herald’s rest_. Who had come up with that name, again?

Jace cast a final glance back, shifting her bodyweight to observe the crowd, before slipping through the passageway which led to the Undercroft.

Ambient noises petered out, and the fireplaces’ light obscured as Jace shut the door behind her as delicately as she could. Her eyelids flickered rapidly, allowing her eyes to grow accustomed to the sudden dimness. She crossed the corridor, climbing down the flight of stairs, and pushing the door facing her, emerged onto the Undercroft.

She peered around. Somehow, the place was quite dark. She hoped to spot Dagna, yet found the arcanist was absent. Surely, she had mingled with everybody else, and was out celebrating.

_Fuck it_. Jace sat on the nearest chair, bringing the awful drink to her mouth once more, and a series of coughs overtook her again as she did.

Raising her head, she found the man she had temporarily sentenced to this place fixatedly looking at her.

— ✦ —

Samson focused on his breathing, steadying it as the dwarf had suggested. He glanced at his arm again, at the ripped off sleeve. The bandages wrapped around it had steadily stained red since her departure, forming a dark, crimson aureole underneath, and yet he was to remain immobile until her return. Not that the weakness in him allowed him much movements, regardless, the throng of experiments the dwarf had conducted on him had made him drowsy. Samson was stuck to this chair until told otherwise.

From the distance, a constant stream of muffled sounds had been reaching him in fluctuating intensity. He didn’t need to guess why, soldiers had told the news to the Arcanist before she had taken off, gesticulating oddly as she often did, then hurryingly shouting directives at him as she exited the place.

Another sound rose from afar, and he hazily turned towards its source. The door he had passed the first time he had set foot here swung open, and a figure stepped inside, shutting the door behind them. Samson’s eyes narrowed as he recognised Inquisitor Trevelyan. She didn’t seem to have noted his presence. Openly staring at her; her steps appeared unsteady, a large mug in hand before she settled down on a nearby chair.

Jace rose her head, and finally noticed Samson. Meeting his gaze, she observed him curiously, more overtly than she’d normally had. Late enough, it dawned on her that the man before her seemed weakened, and observing him further, Jace finally took notice of the bandage wrapped around his arm.

“Why are you in this state?” Her words had been slower than usual. She sipped again from her drink, and miraculously did not need to cough to swallow the content. She stared; Samson was observing her oddly, as if she was a strange sort of apparition.

“That dwarf drew blood from me,” he answered after a moment of silence, his voice was as gravelly as she remembered and his tone as weak as he appeared.

Jace openly laughed at his words, before inwardly berating herself at how insensitive her response must have appeared and immediately attempted to correct it.

“She does that. She once requested a piece of my skin, if you must know.”

Silence fell in the Undercroft.

“Why are you here, Inquisitor?”

Why was she, indeed? Her mind had become a tad bit blurry, and she found herself contemplating the question with overt intentness, her thoughts unnaturally fixated on it and forgetting to answer over the course of several seconds. Setting the drink aside on the nearest surface of Dagna’s workshop among a collection of tools –Maker knows that was not clearing her thoughts– she straightened as much as she could.

“Corypheus has been defeated.”

Samson’s eyes remained fixed against a distant, singular point. His mind had gone to sleep days ago, and still, beneath the surface, he could feel it darkening at the words, and the emotions he had so desperately kept at bay stirred. His teeth clenched, “I know. You people make so much noise, it’d be difficult not to hear it.”

Trevelyan stayed silent, her look still glazing over in transparent inebriety. Detaching his gaze from her, Samson leaned back in his seat, hoping his racing headache would pass, at last. And yet… her presence had propelled each thought he did not wish facing back at the forefront of his mind, doing nothing to assuage his physical discomfort. And because he could not reign it in, the words spilled out of him; “You all must be so proud of it. Victory at last,” his tone had come out layered with poison, more than he had intended, but he could not restrain the resentment within him.

He watched as Trevelyan leaned forward, her gaze meeting his. For the space of several heartbeats, his taunt went unanswered.

“The world Corypheus had promised would not have not brought the justice you sought.”

Of course not. Had he not known that all long? He had known that Corypheus’ aim did not align with his from the beginning. He had always suspected it, yet what other chance did he have? It seemed strange, however, that she had guessed it so easily. Samson scoffed faintly, and much to his dislike heard a grief-stricken touch to the sound. _Of course_ _I knew_, Samson thought. He should have raged, but where had blazed a heated inferno laid only bitter disappointment.

A thought struggled to extract itself out of the disarray in his mind.

“You gave Maddox a funeral.”

Samson remembered a pair of his men returning to him after they had searched the remains of the Temple of Dumat, and had found a nearby tomb of obsidian and lazurite. It was rudimentary work, but there had been unmistakeable traces of magic to it. The sight had confounded him since and he needed to know what had happened.

Trevelyan drew a sip from a mug, a faint expression of disgust on her face as she stared at the drink, before settling the cup down.

“I did. He deserved no less.”

“How… What did he say last?

“He spoke of you,” There was a pause, “He said you saved him.”

It hurt to hear it. And again, what he had maintained at bay stung under the surface. Samson tilted his head, staring at the ceiling in an opposite direction. Involuntarily, a memory came floating back; they had all been about to run, one of his soldiers had scrambled back to them bearing news of the Inquisition’s imminent approach, and to worsen the matter, his old comrade had come alongside the Inquisitor. Then Maddox had approached him in the frenzy, announcing his decision to remain behind; at first, Samson had pleaded, but the implacable logic unique to tranquil had brought him to relent. He had left him behind anxiously; two contrasting sides of him at work within him, one whispering it likely was the end of their unexpected friendship, the other roaring they’d meet again. They had left, but not before Samson had adjoined Maddox not to carelessly throw way his life, to not use it with his implacable rationality. He had already heard from Cullen the manner of his death, but had never heard his final words. It twisted like a knife.

“There was something else.”

Samson turned his head back towards the Inquisitor, staring blankly.

“Leliana will likely be Divine. The inquisition is backing her up.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“She plans to abolish the Circle.”

The shock of the news pushed him to prop himself higher and sit up straight.

As though Trevelyan was speaking for herself rather than for him, she muttered under breath, “No more circles, no more templars.” She paused, glancing briefly at him. “And no more Lyrium trade.”

It was as if the ground had disappeared from under him again, it was as if he had received a blow in the guts again. Not only had his own venture been pointless, and yet another had succeeded where he had failed by the sheer force of things. Had the Maker willed that?

“Can she really do that?

Jace chuckled. Her voice threatened to slur at every point, and controlling herself required an amount of energy she simply did not possess at this very moment. Yet, still, control she must, “As Divine, she will have more liberty allowed to her. Besides, who’s to stop the Nightingale, anyway?” Jace internally snickered at the idea of insurgents pitting themselves against Leliana, attempting assassinations on her person and failing spectacularly. “She can, and she will,” Her voice trailed off, her gaze falling to the floor, “This will never happen again, they will all be free.”

And another moment of silence stretched infinitely.

“What’s this drink you’re having?”

Jace raised her head, uncertain of whether she had heard him correctly. She stared at her mug, then back at Samson.

“Seems to be fine dwarven ale. I’m sure delivered directly from Orzammar.” It was a distasteful drink which burned like nothing she had ever tasted, she thought. “Want a sip?”

She peered at him as he regarded her in quiet disbelief. So, Jace outstretched her arm in his direction, “Not sure how much is left.” It _had_ been a rather large mug, however. She couldn’t have drunk it all, could she?

He seemed hesitant, his motion slow, yet still he grabbed the mug from her hand before gulping its content with a certain avidity.

Samson did not cough when drinking.

“Fine dwarven ale indeed,” depositing the mug pell-mell among Dagna’s tools, he wiped excesses on his chin with his sleeve.

Jace almost choked on his remark, “Maker, you’re familiar with this stuff?”

It seemed an eternity before the mug had been emptied in its entirety, and he had finished her job better than she ever could, all things considered.

Once Jace re-emerged from the Undercroft, leaving via the usual stairway, it seemed celebrations had abated. She sighted guards dozed off on their watch, past out soldiers curled up with each other while others still seemed determined to outdrink each other, and she saw The Iron Bull laid flat against the ground, mumbling gibberish and what no doubt what sounded like Qunlat. Walking through the Hall, she was pleasantly surprised to find Josephine perfectly lively and overseeing the chaos, Cullen and Leliana at her sides. She passed the three of them quite briefly, exchanging words and embraces with each of them, before bidding them all good night —or what remained of it— before retiring to her quarters.

* * *

And there it was. What he had dreaded the most had come back to haunt him. Symptoms had been sporadic, at the beginning. A raging headache, first. His muscles aching for no apparent reason, next. Samson had done all that was in his power to distract himself, turning his focus to pointless things, yet there was no stopping this. But mindless distractions had ceased to work, then, as all the symptoms had begun merging together and taken hold of his body and he’d feel a biting cold seep into his limbs, and unbearable heat radiate from him.

Heeding the request Jace had given her less than a month ago, the Arcanist had forwarded a messenger to the Inquisitor’s quarters, frantically warning her of their latest conscript’s state. So, Jace had raced out of the large bedchamber, using the main door and traversing the Great Hall almost unnoticed by the scrutinising eyes of nobles residing in the keep.

Returning, they had had no choice but to walk the longest path, taking the passage she’d had normally made use of, the one which had always served her well when prudence was required. The torchlight’s dancing flames had seared into her retina as they traversed the corridor. They weren’t far, now.

His ragged breathing grew more and more disorderly with each step as she helped him forward. His head throbbed maddeningly, preventing him from focusing and forming coherent thoughts. He had already ceased to question where they were headed,

"What... Are you...”

His words died in his throat, snuffed out by another wave of nausea gripping him, tightening in his chest, and he doubled over, and pressed against his guts as pained grunts escaped him.

They reached their destination. She pushed the door open with, still holding him. Her hands were pressing down on his shoulders as she redirected him to the paved balcony. A cold breeze perpetually blew so far high in the keep, caressing her face and ruffling her hair, fresh air filling her nostrils. A coughing fit took Samson and once again his hands went to press against his stomach. She saw his face losing all colours, and he lurched forward, retching over the balustrade.


	4. Rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And enters the Angst~  
I hope you guys will enjoy this chapter, don't hesitate to leave a comment/kudos to let me know what you think (and as usual, you can also point out typos and give constructive criticism if you feel like it).

Yet again, he found himself stuck in this state. In a sick way, he had grown accustomed to it, and the initial element of despair at its return had already evaporated. Had he not already lived through this, all these years ago? Was this not a familiar routine, this craving sensation cuddling up to him at night in Kirkwall’s empty streets, like static growing louder, always nestled somewhere in his guts and gnawing at his insides? Both mind and body were constantly on edge. As incapable of coherent thoughts as he was, a single conviction appeared clear in his mind amidst the uproar of his emotions: it had not been worse than this. He had been plagued by instability in his dosage, forced to accustom his senses to whatever amount he’d be blessed enough to get his hands on. But this, was akin to receiving a hammer’s blow in the gut; brutal, unexpected and final, halting his thoughts and crippling him. He had not seen a single drop of the blue liquid, not in days, not in weeks, nor its tainted version as he had come to learn. Maker knows he’d find none here, yet surely there were other recruits, other Templars who still needed to abide by their precious Chantry’s rules, he remembered so from their previously garnered intelligence, perhaps he— His convulsing body forced him back to his agonising senses, beads of perspiration ceaselessly streaming down his face and into his neck, rubbing against his garments and further increasing his discomfort. Doubling over, his knees buckled under him and his elbows hit the carpeted floor, a rough grunt escaping him from the impact. A quiet sound beside him indicated she had followed him down. He had been warned of the effects of Corypeus’ magic on him, and just as Samson’s body convulsed again, feeling another wave of nausea making his stomach churn, he sensed its effects deserting him, the poisonous lyrium-induced sickness slowly seeping in as it departed. A tightening around his ribs, around his throat. His muscles involuntarily contracted and caustic bile surged up his throat and onto the pristine carpet.

Coughs choked him, air had difficulty reaching him and passing through him. He could sense his face flushing from the heaving of his stomach, involuntary tears pricked his eyes, rolling down the bridge of his nose and onto the stained and soiled carpeted floor. He attempted to return to a sitting position, the strength gone from him, and kneeled, his body reflectively leaning forward. Attempting to regain mastery over himself served for nothing, there was no control to be had over his rebelling body. The moment stilled, and he sensed a hand brushing against his back, then lightly pressing against him. He had not had time to ponder over why she was still there, pressing against his shoulders as she’d usually do, a sensation he had also grown accustomed to, he had found. Before he could form any coherent thought and wonder at the gesture once more, a warm sensation unexpectedly enveloped him, spreading through him, chasing away the burn within his chest, and, for an instant, the trembling ceased, and his hands stilled. He stared down at his hands, clenching them and spreading them in turn in amazement, and tilted his head in her direction. He found her beside him, sitting back on her haunches and hands splayed across his back; her expression reflecting concentration, a crease nestled between her brows. Confusion formed in him as he caught sight of the faint, cerulean glow pouring from her fingers. Identifying such magic came easy for having witnessing it countless times in his past, yet… As the flow reached him, willing his senses still, he felt it reaching an impossible barrier, unable to reach the core of his ailment. _The lyrium_. It went too deep, he thought. Taking advantage of this isolated lull Samson was allowed, he turned his head in her direction once again. How foolish was she? What was she trying to accomplish?

“You can’t help thi—”

A coughing fit overtook him as he spoke, his throat rough from the retching. To his confusion, her hands remained laid flat against him, a constant stream of magic battling the other constant.

From the silence, breached only by his breathing, sounds of a commotion reached the large bedchamber, prompting Jace and Samson to lift their head towards the source of the sound –the stairs leading up to her quarters–.

An instinctual foreshadowing forced her on her feet, planting herself in front of Samson in prevision. Echoes of voices grew louder in intensity, almost allowing her to guess at the identity of these incoming… guests, confirming her suspicions. Though her mind pondered how best the situation was to be handled, she simply hoped they would depart as soon as they arrived. Finally, sounds of the main door swinging open reached her, multiple steps following.

The Inquisition’s very own advisers stepped into the room. Their group appeared in disarray, as if joining together hastily, hurrying to their destination. Cullen stood at their head, no doubt the instigator —she guessed, Josephine at his side, her writing board within her hands. Leliana partly stood within Cullen’s shadow, her hood masking a side of her face as she observed the scene from where she stood, a curious, calculating look nestled in her eyes. Jace’s handmaid, Aien, followed close by, hands clasped together and twisting in distress as she looked each party over. Gaze falling, Cullen spotted Samson kneeled on the floor, bending over a puddle of vomit, and extended his arm, gesturing at the group to pause. Raising her hand in a graceful, swift motion, Josephine covered her mouth as she let out a nigh inaudible gasp.

“Well, well...” Leliana stepped forward, hands crossed behind her back, the weight of her gaze examining the scene before them.

A fleeting memory of how Josephine and Leliana had interrupted the Iron Bull in Dorian’s company weeks before floated through Jace’s mind. It had been quite the talk in the war room for the following days, and Leliana’s snickers had accompanied the subject every time. No doubt, this time, the following days would be filled with awkward silences instead.

Cullen had remained standing rigidly at the same place, his eyebrows tightly knitted together in displeasure. “So, this is what you were doing this whole time.”

Jace tilted her head in her spymaster’s direction, a questioning looks in her eyes as their gaze met. Had they not been warned? She had sent her handmaid to deliver a message to the red-haired woman shortly after it had all begun, briefly explaining the reason for her prolonged absence. She had reviewed and stamped reports as they had piled up on her desk, duly forwarding them to their recipient, unwaveringly fulfilling her role of Inquisitor in spite.

Responding to her look, Leliana picked up where Cullen had left off. “I did warn you, Commander.” She shifted her body towards Jace. “I did receive your message, and shared it with everyone else, of course. But…” Her voice grew faint as her eyes lingered on Cullen. “The rest of us grew concerned.”

Jace did not grow the least bit surprised. If anyone were to storm in as such in these circumstances, it was Cullen. She did grow more uncomfortable as the seconds stretched on, and, an eyebrow arched in imperceptible annoyance, she turned her head in the Commander’s direction. “Well, are you reassured?”

Cullen did not reply, his eyes firmly set on the ground where his former comrade sat.

“I’m sure he will be.” The spymaster’s eyes wore a curious look, as if she was savouring a particularly sweet gossip she might put to good use in the near future, lips stretched in a faint smile as her eyes lingered on both her and Samson. “Perhaps we should take our leave, then.”

_Ugh, finally_. Jace straightened out the flap of her coat, partially shielding Samson from their sight, and unemotionally meeting Josephine’s awkward gaze, she gave a polite smile at her attention, one which was returned.

A few whispered words from Leliana at Cullen’s attention ultimately brought him to move, his eyes set against Jace’s as he did.

“Well, let us away, then.” Scrambling to bring a semblance of order and dignity to the situation, Josephine glanced at the others, uncertain, awaiting their response.

Josephine immediately followed suit, eager to depart the premises, but occasionally looked back to check on her two colleagues, one of which followed after her. Cullen lingered in his position slightly longer than the others and was the last to depart. 

Jace stood her ground, until the sound of their steps faded away, and she heard the door swing shut after them. Once she was certain they were gone, she turned around to join Samson who had assumed a slightly more dignified sitting position.

Samson had decided to remain out of it. He had not exchanged so much as a glance with either of them; he had contained a series of coughs nigh to the point of chocking, his eyes were watery and likely bloodshot from all the retching, and a thin trail of moisture clung to the corner of his mouth, making him unsuitable for conversation. Much less for explanations. As if anyone needed one, anyway. The spectacle was clear enough.

She dipped her head to look at him: “Are you better?”

He grunted, and his voice rasped, “Not really.”

The suddenness of the commotion had taken his mind away from the never-ending sickness he had been stuck in for days, yet he could still feel it pulsating, barely kept at bay. He tried to assume a sitting position. He needn’t stare down at his hands to know they were shaking again along with the rest of his body, the effects of her magic already taken over by withdrawal. He could feel himself breaking out in cold sweats and couldn’t determine whether he was cold or burning up. His breathing was still disorderly, a proof and remnant of the crisis.

This time, he tried to get back on his feet. He felt her arm slid under him immediately as he did so, helping him up. This was happening for the fifth time since the day begun. He had succeeded in walking up to the balcony and empty the non-existent content of his stomach while leaning over the balustrade, avoiding soiling the room, but once again, he had been caught in a streak he wasn’t sure he had yet broken out of. How many times yet would he have to suffer through this? He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, blinking repeatedly. His legs hesitantly carrying him, Samson could almost feel his knees buckling under him. He felt keenly the weakness in his limbs, He tried breathing in the outside air coming from the open balcony, hoping it’d chase away this biting need sitting at the pit of his stomach, chase away the impression that his nerves were on fire. None of it subsided.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm sorry it took such a long time to post this! As usual, I hope you will enjoy this chapter, in spite of how short it is~

And with that, Samson had lost his sense of time. By that moment, the state of him had only worsened, and he no longer attempted to resist whatever surge took him. He had contented with these symptoms in the past, and it should not startle him, it should not be as crippling as it had always been.

He failed to gauge it all accurately; had it been more severe in the past? Was this sickness much more potent now that he saw no reprieve in sight? There had always been a sliver to hold on to before, there had always been an opportunity which would present itself for coin and thus for lyrium. Was it graver now that he had been locked away in this room? Had it been worse in the past? His memories were a blur he could not access, on which he could not focus his thoughts. Not that Samson could focus his thoughts on much of anything, now. Could anything have been worse than this?

His insides twisted, a never-ending sensation inside his guts. His pulse quickening sweat breaking out, his stomach churning though there was nothing left to reject already. At it again. Persistent scratching in his veins, like a sharpened nail, slowly and deliberately tearing away at him. His hands were pressed against the floor, barely supporting the rest of him, his elbows unstable from the tremor. He gritted his chattering teeth, forced his muscles to respond to him, mentally ordering himself to hold. But his body refused to obey him. In these moments, he would feel his strength waning, control over his limbs slipping out of grasp, every inch of him instead broken down, begging, pleading, hungering, and the sting would assail him in return to the unassuaged thirst. He fell on the floor, hitting it hard as his hands knotted in his hair, as if pressing against his head enough would alleviate this pressing and torturous sensation, as if tugging at his hair enough would allow him to experience some respite. But there was only one thing that’d offer respite. And he wasn’t getting it. Again, his muscles involuntarily contracted, and his stomach lurched, he felt his insides burning as if eaten away. He released his hold on his head and pressed his hands against the floor again to make the process easier. He heaved violently, and bile surged up once more from his throat. He heaved again, stuck in this never-ending cycle. From afar, he felt her hands pressing against his shoulders, the other constant, her bodyweight lightly pressing against him, and her hand gliding up and down his back. He could barely distinguish anything through his bleary eyes, though he did hear a faint exclamation from her side. Forcing himself to focus, he searched the floor to find it stained with crimson droplets amidst caustic bile. What else was he supposed to retch, next? His entire guts? When would it be satisfied? When would it settle? His arms gave out, and he collapsed on the floor again. She reached out before his head hit the ground and held him, her hands cupping his head. Accompanying her gesture was the unexpected and alleviating wash of her magic reaching through him, sustaining him and battling the sickness inside him.

After all, Samson did not recall retching blood in the past.

Somehow, the illness did not recede, despite her efforts, and had hit harder than his memories could account for. How many times had it been that he was sick, now? He never counted, but it piled up on top of him, threatening to bury him. His breathing was still ragged and disorderly. What had started off as pesky, nagging headaches and cold sweats had degenerated into a continual sickness, and each crisis was as intense as the previous one, as if constantly riding at the peak of a great wave. He was stuck in this streak, days of craving biting him and harassing him into surrendering to the bitter liquid which would finally quell it all.

And yet, he couldn’t. There was no way for him to get his hands on what he needed. Simply thinking of it seemed to intensify the throbbing at the back of his skull.

Again, as he always did, Samson attempted to sit, to regain a more dignified position.

He had been laid at the feet of painful sobriety. His senses could no longer be dulled, instead they had been shaken and forced awake to experience this unremitting, throbbing pain. He could lay down for hours on end, clasping his own head in hope for it to dissipate, and all it did was eat away at him. A drink would do, by that point, a drop, a smidgen, _anything_.

Had he been back in Kirkwall’s dubious streets, somewhere, anywhere, one backhand deal or another would have allowed him to get his hands on something, anything. Any dosage would have worked, anything to soothe his parched throat and restless nerves.<strike></strike>

Memories from the months before being captured bubbled up in his mind, to his times spent under Corypheus. In the midst guilt and obsessive determination, laid appeasement. Under this new, albeit corrupted regime, not once did he have to demean himself to questionable deals with what member of the Carta wouldn’t regard him with distaste; not once was he forced to grovel, accepting any work he could find. He had had unrestrained, unlimited access to the red liquid, and no longer had any need for its weaker blue counterpart. That is what he had been given, and he’d almost regret its loss, now.

His life had been ruled by Lyrium for so long, he had forgotten how to cope without it.


End file.
